


as the hours pass, i will let you know.

by lorekeepings



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), BDSM, Bondage, Creampie, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Infertility Mention, Lingerie, Mutual Pining, Nude Photos, One-Sided Attraction, Overworked Adults, Pegging, Sexual Content, Verbal Humiliation, Vibrators, kyouko doms, togami subs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29928777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorekeepings/pseuds/lorekeepings
Summary: togami byakuya and kirigiri kyouko have an arrangement - it's contractual, or so they both think. in the throes of ecstasy, two broken, traumatized adults find some comfort in taking the other apart and putting them back together again.
Relationships: Kirigiri Kyoko/Togami Byakuya
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	as the hours pass, i will let you know.

**Author's Note:**

> togami doesn't get pegged in this one, sorry folks!
> 
> if you like what i write (which now includes porn!), consider commissioning me to write @CANTATRICKS on twitter or sending me a tip $lorekeepings on both cashapp and venmo. :)
> 
> this fic includes:  
> \- mentions of a negotiated BDSM FWB relationship  
> \- use of a yellow light safeword  
> \- verbal humilation directed at togami  
> \- humilation using photos of someone taken during sex and a threat made to send them to non-consenting parties (she doesn't and wouldn't; it's just part of their play)  
> \- mentions of kyouko's infertility + togami's thoughts on it  
> \- togami generally being weird when it comes to his perception of kyouko  
> \- the implication that togami's attraction is requited but no confirmation
> 
> title from "after dark" by mr. kitty :) enjoy!

The relationship was arguably transactional. They were friends, yes, but there was nothing more to the relationship outside of the occasional business decision, off-the-books investigation, or, when other forces allowed it, dinner and silence. This transactional nature was the reason why he stood in the doorway to his bedroom — the master bedroom of a penthouse apartment in Tokyo, an hour’s commute away from the base of operations in Japan for the Togami conglomerate — looking at the woman who slumbered carefully within it. The evening sun settles on the horizon, and he looks at her, recalling the events that had led up to this point.

_ He had invited her over for dinner and intimacy, part of the relationship they indulged in with one another. She had always been able to turn the lights off around the cutthroat world of finances and take away the ability to make decisions for him. In the same vein of things, he had always assumed she gained some pleasure out of watching such a successful man fall apart at her fingertips, gloved or otherwise. He told her to swing by early, to rest before he ordered dinner, and when she arrived, he was glad that decision had been made. Fatigue had settled into her body in the way her forehead creased or her eyes struggled to stay open as she kept his silent company, lulled to sleep by the sound of his fingers tapping against the keyboard in his office. Unlike her, he had roused her from the sleep she was fighting on the couch in his office and ushered her to a proper bed. _

From where he was standing, he didn’t get a fantastic view of her, but he didn’t need to. He already knew her body like the back of his hand and knew she shared the same sentiment. It felt like she read him like an open book sometimes, knowing exactly what to say in the aftercare to bring him down from his subspace or where to place her hands during the act itself to unravel him. Now that the roles are reversed and she is vulnerable before him, he feels obligated to return the favor— and ignores, carefully, how there is a heat in his usually-cold chest that forms seeing her in one of his shirts, sleeping soundly with her arms around the pillow.

He approaches, crossing the threshold into his bedroom, and stands by the bed. Reaching out and touching her feels wrong, but calling her name to rouse her from her slumber felt too impersonal. After all, just two weeks ago she held his throat until he spilled over in her other hand; that isn’t something you can become strangers after doing. 

His fingers reach down, guiding his arm to locks of lavender hair spilled out around the pillow like a curtain. In a moment of indulgence, he lets a section of the hair ribbon through his fingers, and the detective, ever the light sleeper, sniffles quietly in her sleep. He freezes, the violet hair still between his fingers, and drops his shoulders when he realizes she won’t wake up from just his fingers in her hair. 

For as long as he’d known her, Kyouko had always been the curved, buxom type, and as her part-time lover, he sees just how her body really looks and works underneath the layers of bureaucratic clothing she wore regularly. In his shirt, under his sheets, however, he finds himself admiring her in a way he doesn’t know if he’d ever done so before— is it arousal that pools in his gut, knowing that yet again, he has accomplished something no mere man would be able to? Or is it adoration, knowing that she trusts him enough to sleep in his bed, exposed in his shirt in the same way he trusts her to take him apart and put him back together again every other weekend?

Before he can think too long on the matter, the CEO moves his hand quickly, resting it on her arm and shaking her gently. “Kirigiri,” he hums in a baritone voice, dulcet tone rousing her from her slumber. She rolls over, brow furrowed as she collects herself, and when she meets eyes with him, violet on cerulean behind his glasses, she offers him a smile before it’s swallowed by her stretch, contorting her face into a scrunch.

“Togami-kun,” she acknowledges, sitting up and pressing her hair down with gloved hands. “Are you alright?”

That warmth he experienced before returns at seeing her so disheveled, yet her thoughts are on him already. It drove him insane, how cold and callous she was but fueled by the safety and comfort of the average person. Sickening, how much of a do-gooder she was, even after being exposed to the shadows of Shibuya’s truth and the justifications of the Kirigiri family’s actions. 

“You told me to wake you when I was finished with my work. It’s six o’clock now.”

“Six?” She inhales sharply, looking around for her cellphone to find it and confirm what he was saying to her: Togami hadn’t lied to her before, of course, but when her phone showcases a bright “6:00 PM” on top of a photo of her and her childhood best friend on her lockscreen, she sighs. “Our reservation…”

“It was cancelled,” Togami tells her, clearing his throat. “My international clients and I were on the phone longer than anticipated. We wouldn’t have made the reservation because of my work, not because you needed to sleep.”

Pretending not to look relieved, Kyouko nods, setting her phone down on the side table again. “Have you a contingency plan for tonight, then?” 

“Food will be delivered in an hour after it’s prepared,” he says, matter-of-factly, crossing his arms. “But I have no desire to lay with you tonight if you can’t stay awake for it.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“Kirigiri.” Sternly, he looks to her, and her eyes meet his, feeling somewhat small at how she had to look up at him. Given that he was tall and lanky, filling out like a practicing kendoka as he entered his mid-twenties, and she barely reached 5’6’’ without her heels, she had to look up at him regularly to get his attention, but there was a vulnerability that came with being scolded by a friend. “You’re not taking care of yourself.”

“It isn’t that I’m not actively trying,” she retorts, arching an eyebrow at him. “It’s just that crime spikes in the summer. I’m busy, with consultations and investigations—”

Lips flattening into a line, Togami arches an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to get to the point.

“You would rather me be rested than saving lives,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as an accusation.

“Forgive me for not being empathetic. I thought we were past that point.”

Was it selfish, Togami thought, to not give a damn about the lives of average people so long as those close to him were well-rested and taken care of? More appropriately, he should ask, did he give a shit as to whether or not it was selfish? He didn’t know the average person on the street, targeted for their hair color or resemblance to a serial killer’s deceased lover, but he knew Kyouko. He knew Kyouko intimately and wanted her to be okay, if only so that she could continue coming to his bedroom and dissecting him like a half-baked lab project.

“You act like what we do is one-sided,” Kyouko tells him after a long, carefully-placed pause. “And that I get nothing out of this either.”

“Well, seeing as how you use me to bring yourself to orgasm, Kirig—”

“Not what I meant,” Kyouko scolds him, scowling. “Being in control of someone with objectively more power and influence than myself? It works. I get to set the plan how I want and decide what the ending is going to be, so long as it stays within the boundaries of what we’ve worked out with one-another. I don’t get that in the real world: I’m doing the chasing, hoping that I make the right choices and save lives. That’s what I get out of this, Togami-kun; not a sensation that I would be able to obtain with a fifty-dollar vibrator.”

“All that to say you’re sure you can enter the scene tonight.”

“I’m well-rested, for now. You’ll likely knock me out after the fact.”

“I expect you to safeword if you think you cannot provide.”

“Just like I expect you to safeword if my behavior bothers you.”

There is an exhale, and Togami nods, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding. “Fine. Our sessions never last more than an hour anyways, so we’ll incorporate dinner into our aftercare.”

“If that’s what you want, sure,” Kyouko nods. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Excellent,” Togami nods, stretching gently by pressing his shoulders down and rising onto the balls of his feet. “Should I leave so you can get dressed?”

“That would be lovely, Byakuya-kun,” she hums, and between his first name being used and the sultry, dulcet tones of her voice, he knows the game is on. Kyouko has always been able to flip a switch and step into a particular headspace: he needs particular coaxing. With a knowing smirk, he takes off his glasses and sets them next to her cellphone on the side table and turns over his shoulder to leave. The door closes behind him, and he knows that in a matter of moments, Kyouko will have gone from the recently-woken, exhausted detective to alluring and competent dominant.

He stands outside the bedroom door, looking down the hall of his apartment into the living room and his office, the door to the latter left open from where he had risen from his work at the end of business hours and moved into the bedroom. Kyouko’s duffel bag had been in the living room until recently; she had chosen to take it with her when he ushered her to the bedroom to sleep. He wonders what she’s packed for him—for them—in that duffel, and he wonders if everything she’s packed will be used tonight. Sometimes she likes to deny him things, but it makes their next meeting that much sweeter when she inevitably lets him release.

He remembers coming to her and asking her for something like this: it had been a shot in the dark, one that hit its target with acute precision. He remembered that brief stint in her college career where she was never around to hang out with the rest of their ‘friend’ group (Togami uses the term loosely, as the only people in that group he would have considered friends at any point were Kyouko and Makoto) due to a partner she had been around with. She didn’t seem too upset when that partner broke things off between them, and it was only recently that Togami learned that that partner was better described as a friend-with-benefits, one actively trying to learn about BDSM.

The door opens, and Togami freezes, as he usually does when she shows herself to him for the first time.

Black lingerie, a two-piece set involving a corset and matching panties, underneath a robe that  _ he  _ had bought for her a few weeks ago: he had continued to ask when she would wear it, but just like the denial he experienced before, this is all the more ravishing to see her in. Stockings and garters connect to the bottoms of her lingerie, and she afforded him the visual of thigh-high boots just ever-so-slightly shorter than the stockings themselves. She had touched up her makeup from her slumber, her hair brushed out and bangs flat against her brow.  _ Perfection,  _ he thought, ignoring the tightness in his pants at the presence of her smirk. She always wore dark red lipstick when they played like this: she liked to leave marks.

“Are you going to come in,” she asks, tone smooth and dulcet that one couldn’t tell she had just been woken up less than twenty minutes ago, “or do you have plans to stand there and stare all night?”

Usually, he would rebuke with some sort of quip about her attitude, but their game had already started: she had already addressed him by his first name, a secret meant for only them and the walls of this bedroom. So instead, he waits for her to step to the side, and he enters, quietly, taking to his knees before the bed as the door behind them closed. She steps in front of him, sitting at the edge of the bed, and crosses one leg over the other. The duffel bag, opened, sits on the floor by the bed, and Togami’s eyes wander to it slightly, hoping to get a glimpse of what she had prepared.

Instead, her hands guide his head back to facing forward, looking at her and only her. Without speaking a word to him, she fastens a collar — tight, leather, and black — around his neck: the final mark of his submission to her settles onto his body, and the stress of the day begins to disappear with it. Subspace was a beautiful thing, and he had heard from her the stories of revelry and charisma that came with domspace. Togami wonders if domspace begins with when he looks at her, or if it began when she marked him as hers with this collar.

“Remind me of your safeword, Byakuya,” she tells him, the honorifics missing. It is not that she doesn’t believe he’s  _ deserving  _ of them, of course; she has told him that several times in and out of their aftercare. The decision was made to make it easier to take the roles— objectifying one-another as a submissive and a dominant, not friends who have known one-another for several years.

“Lemon ramen,” he tells her. Their safeword had been a joke, of course: when selecting one, Kyouko had suggested he make it something he hated, which prompted him to ask what she hated, as well. His least-favorite fruit and her least-favorite meal combined to make an amalgamation that is both a horror to their personal preferences and to most culinary enthusiasts.

“Good boy,” she replies, the heat pooling to his legs at her praise. Something about the way her lips moved around the words drove Togami insane, and he knew firsthand that her lips moved around several other things that drove him just as crazy, too. Perhaps it was some kind of Pavlovian response, but he wouldn’t but himself beneath working out of responses like that. Her thumb presses against his lips, and without prompting, he takes the glove-covered digit into his mouth, sucking on it while she speaks. “How many can I get out of you tonight? Two? Three?”

He isn’t being spoken to; he knows that. If she wanted a response, she would have asked for one, and that mischievous glint in her eyes means that she’s goading him into disobeying her, likely to bring about a punishment.  _ Funishments,  _ she had called them once between laughs, as they weren’t a lifestyle dynamic and he had no rules to abide by if he didn’t want them. She knew better than to ask him something like that: they were both mavericks, independent and stubborn and headstrong, only bowing to one-another in the safety of the bedroom. 

“We’ll start with two,” she decides, crinkling her nose and withdrawing her thumb from his mouth only to replace it with her index and middle fingers. His tongue pressed flat into his mouth, Togami chokes on the digits’ sudden entry into his mouth again, and Kyouko hums in approval at the sound. His eyes close, and he forces his throat to relax, breathing slowly through his nose as she presses her fingers against the muscle to prompt another noise. He gags, and she withdraws her fingers, leather gloves shiny with his spit.

Her legs uncross, left boot pressing itself between his thighs and smiling. “Spread,” she tells him, and he does without hesitation, feeling the curve of her ankle press into his hardening member, the toe of her boot firmly underneath him. The friction is necessary, and he knows she’s just getting him worked up until he’s begging for her to take him in however way she pleases, either riding him until his hands are gripping at the restraints, or with a device of her own, damp gloves pressing his back down to find that perfect arch. “Jacket off.”

He nods, shrugging out of his suit jacket and leaving it crumpled up behind him on the floor. Usually, Togami would have hung it up to be dry-cleaned with the rest of his expensive laundry, but underneath Kyouko’s gaze, he cares little about the happenings of his clothes. (It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to get new ones, should these get ruined.) “Tell me about work,” she tells him, and his lips twitch. 

“I was dealing with international clients tod— _ ah! _ ” He gasps as she lifts her leg just slightly, the pressure to his length moreso now as she left her ankle there, encouraging him to continue talking. Cheeks reddening as heat swirled around his body, looking for a proper place to go, he casts his gaze lower, rocking his hips experimentally into her leg. When he is not scolded for doing so, Togami assumes this is what she wants out of him— to make a mess of himself under her voice, her touch. “—today. The conglomerate has partners in the Middle East: India, Egypt… we’re strengthening relations with them in hopes to move forward with a new expansion project next quarter.”

“Mm,” she hums, though Togami isn’t sure if that pleased noise is because he’s done what she’s asked or because he’s slowly rutting against her leg, submission curling against handsome features as blue eyes soften. (He knows, deep down, she doesn’t know how the inner workings of a finance conglomerate operate, and he knows on the surface that she doesn’t give a shit, either. He doesn’t know anything about police operations, anyways.) “I wonder what your new investors would think if they saw you like this. So overworked, so desperate to have the world taken away from you that you grind against a detective’s shoe, waiting for her to tell you it’s alright to let go.”

“ _ Kyouko, _ ” he hisses—first names are not something to be ashamed of here—as he rocks into her leg once more. The redness in his cheeks isn’t something he hides anymore, chest rising and falling as he searches for release however she wants to give it to him. She holds up her phone, smiling devilishly at him and clicking her tongue. “You wouldn’t.”

But she would, and she has before, as they have discussed would be alright. There are a few photos she’s kept from their previous romps, but the more incriminating ones she deletes in front of him in the aftercare to make sure his paranoia is kept at an all time low. “I wouldn’t?” she asks, challenging him and moving her leg away from his thighs all together—this is met with a throaty noise of protest—as she lifts his chin. “You seem to forget who you are when you’re talking to me, Byakuya.  _ Nothing.  _ You may be important to everyone outside of these bedroom walls, but you and I both know that here, and now, you are  _ nothing. _ ”

He hesitates, looking to her leg, then back up to her. Eyes are pleading, begging for some type of stimulation, but he knows better than to touch himself when he hasn’t even been undressed yet. Touching without permission is a one-way trip to a punishment, and though he stands in the shallow end of subspace, he hasn’t decided if he wants punishment by his own choice just yet. “I am nothing,” he repeats, and sighs audibly when she returns her limb to where it was, letting him grind against her. He goes so far as to fall forward, his forehead resting on her thigh where her garter met her stocking, sighing again. “Nothing.” He repeats.

“Nothing but something for me to use,” she tells him, pleased with his behavior. Kyouko had told him once in subspace that while she doesn’t mind the challenge of breaking an insubordinate submissive, she prefers her partners compliant— it helps fend off any particular brand of domdrop she might experience. Her hand rests on the back of his head while he grinds against her, panting quietly as he worships her in his own way. They share moments like this sometimes, usually after Kyouko has denied him release in their last session or after stress has run them both tight, where they sit in silence, coaxed into one-sided eroticism until pleasure is reached. “So desperate for release, you’d move like an animal just to get off.”

“I need it,” he tells her, lips pressing against the soft flesh of her thighs. She smelled divine, as she always does, but just like every other time, he’ll forget to ask her what perfume she uses, or what causes such a romantic aroma. 

“You need  _ it? _ ” She teases him, grabbing a handful of hair where her hand was and pulling up to make him look at her. Togami cries out as the roots of his hair are abused, and he is met with not an amused smirk but a disappointing scowl. Eyes widen, and though he had removed his blue-light glasses, his contacts kept him from missing a single detail on her face, panicked that he had already disappointed her so early. 

“ _ You, _ ” he corrects himself, hands still firmly holding her leg. “I need  _ you. _ ”

“ _ Better, _ ” she frowns, and drops him. Once free, he slowly returns himself to her lap, hesitant to continue but falling back into the rhythm. Her hands reach under him to loosen his tie, removing it and tossing it with his jacket. His shirt becomes unbuttoned moments later, but she doesn’t remove it. Instead, cold, gloved fingers explore his collar bone, and Togami hisses quietly at the teasing sensation. “I don’t want to have to be mean to you tonight, Byakuya. I think you still remember your lesson from the last session.”

Oh, he remembers. He remembers the way she held his throat with one hand and whipped him with the other, the ghost sting of the riding crop she favored coursing through his rear. He wouldn’t mind more pain in that way, but if he has to put off his own orgasm even after she has alluded to the fact that he will get them tonight, he will lose his mind thoroughly. 

What would it be like to dominate her, he thinks, looking up at her and yet again taking her gloved fingers into his mouth while he grinds against her, desperate for the beginnings of release. Would she so pliantly open her lips for whatever Togami wanted to place between them? Would she call him  _ sir  _ or  _ director  _ if he so asked her to, bent over his desk in his office— or perhaps, in her office at the agency? Would she gain the same euphoria he did from behind held so tightly and having the illusion of choice taken away from her? After all, they came from similar backgrounds, both traumatized and abused and turning to sex to replace what their brains could not make without stimulation. 

“Please,” he begs her, his voice warbled around her fingers. “I’m close.”

“Already?” she frowns, clicking her tongue in disapproval. This was early for Togami during a normal session, yes, but Kyouko knew he wouldn’t have held on for long after denying him the last time they were together. Still, she knows he likes to be humiliated behind these closed doors, shamed for something he can’t control when the entire world praises him for his cutthroat deniability. “Alright.”

“My slacks—”

“Ruin them.”

_‘_ Ruin _me,_ ’ he echoes in his head as he spills over, the wet patch of his seed darkening the color of his already-dark trousers. What an honor it is to be ruined by her every time, whether he comes out of the bedroom in the morning euphoric or stained black and blue by her hand. He finishes with a groan, and Kyouko moves her leg away from him, rising from the bed. With the appetizer out of the way, it was time to get to the main course, and though he had barely time to recover from his first orgasm, he is left with the embarrassing nature of his climax in his pants, chest rising and falling behind an open, exposed shirt.

“Take them off,” she tells him, reaching into the duffel bag, and he needs no further explanation. Drowning in his subspace, whatever she has for him he will accept in open arms, pliant and submissive to her whims and wills. The shirt goes first, and he’s glad she’s already undone the buttons for him, as shaky fingers may not have had the dexterity needed for such a feat. The slacks go next, and he grows shameful as the damp patch pulls against his skin, followed by his boxers as the pile completes. He is left in socks and his watch, the latter of which Kyouko comes to remove, giving him the final command to strip completely.

Once he is naked and looking at her, she holds up the leather cuffs that match the collar around his neck. He is brought to the headboard of his bed, fastened to the vertical, wooden slats moments later. “Thank you,” he tells her, blue eyes looking up at her as she slips two fingers between both cuffs to make sure that they wouldn’t cut off his circulation. “For letting me finish.”

“Words mean nothing to me, Byakuya,” she tells him. “Actions speak louder.”

The boots are removed from the bed, having served their purpose (and needing a cleaning, frankly) and she straddles his chest, slowly moving forward so that each of her thighs sat on opposite sides of each side of his face. Being worshipped like he had done before always made her wet, and Byakuya is not blind to the slight dampness to her panties as she pulls them to the side. Equal exchange: he had his orgasm, now she was to have hers.

Kyouko had told him once that for all the talking he did, he would be fantastic at eating a woman out, but like with all of her partners, she had to teach him what she liked and what she didn’t like. He was a willing student, growing frustrated with her in their vanilla sessions together until his tongue and his tongue alone brought her to a tightened, moaning mess in a hotel bedroom. She had praised him quite some deal that night, only to be met with aloofness. Now, as she settles herself onto his face, there is no semblance of apathy, only willing participation.

He would have preferred to be able to spread her open, to take his time taking her apart until he repaid the debt he had incurred in the floor, but he had to work with what he could, and so he lapped hungrily at her, flattening his tongue to cover surface area until he felt the sensitive nub he was searching for peek just out past her labia. There, he pressed down on her clit with his tongue, and, though muffled thanks to her thighs on his ears, Kyouko let out a quiet moan that melted into a sigh at the end of it all. 

_ I’m sensitive there,  _ she had told Byakuya during one of their vanilla sessions when they were getting to know one-another’s bodies prior to the exploration into kink.  _ Don’t overwork it there, or I won’t last very long. _

Byakuya remembers pulling multiple orgasms out of her that night just to test that theory. She was right: she was sensitive there. The visual of her in his bedsheets returns to the forefront of his mind, and he wonders if she would let him watch, just once, as she brings herself to orgasm over and over in his bed, wearing his clothes, reminding him that regardless of where he goes or who he sleeps with, no one will ever know his body as well as she does, and no one will ever know her body as well as he. He didn’t consider himself a voyeur, but he groans underneath her at the fantasy.

Her fingers tighten in his hair as she whines, and it is such a beautiful sound. There is something fascinating about taking someone apart to hear their most carnal sounds, and he can’t wait to hear more when she rides him. Or maybe she’ll top him instead and say horrible things until he finishes in her hands. He doesn’t know— and frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Byakuya,” she whispers, and he points his tongue, pressing it into her folds and tries so desperately to fuck her with it. He wants to hear more of that music she makes for him, but she keeps it from him. She looks down at him, and their eyes lock, and he sees how unraveled she’s become at the touch. Her cheeks red, her smile lopsided, her lips parted ever-so-slightly as she looks down at him, and for a second he wonders if she has something to say, but instead she tilts her head back and moans again. Her hair spills about her shoulders like a waterfall, and epitome of ecstasy and beauty atop him. He understands the concept of erotic art, having met Kyouko so intimately like this: this is a moment he wants to capture forever, for his eyes only.

Her stomach tightens, and she cries out as he presses his tongue against her clit again. Her climaxes are never as dramatic as his, but they are so much sweeter. He grins against her body as it’s wracked with the throes of ecstasy, and when she pulls her core away from his mouth, it’s stained with the slickness of her juices and his spit. What a sight.

The duffel is reached into again, and Byakuya is not surprised to find that the item she withdraws from it is a handheld, white vibrator. Removing the robe, the conglomerate head gets yet another look at Kyouko’s body now that it wasn’t shrouded with black fabric. Setting the vibrator at the foot of the bed, she quietly works, and Byakuya’s chest rises and falls in anticipation as she removes her panties as well, leaving only the corset and the stockings.

“No,” he pants, breathless. “Let me see you. Please.”

There is a flicker of doubt in her eyes that he catches. It happens every time he asks to see her: if given the opportunity, Kyouko will remain fully clothed while she brings her lover to orgasm over and over again. It wasn’t until recently that Byakuya started protesting that she wasn’t undressing, and when she said she had nothing to wear and refused to spend her own money on lingerie or other things that wouldn’t be worn for anyone other than him, he had purchased her some sets that he wanted to see her in. This one wasn’t one of those sets, which made his gut swell with pride at the thought of her ordering lingerie to wear just for him, but the robe, as he had observed before, definitely was. 

It was insecurity, he had decided, that kept her from baring herself to him, but he knew that it was the power of the submissive that truly set the tone for every interaction. The dominant made the rules, yes, but they were not the only ones with power. “Please,” he repeated himself, begging quietly. “I want to see you while you use me, every part of you. I want to be the only one who gets to see you like this.”

She is quiet for a while, but after that long while, she reaches behind herself and unlaces her corset, letting the piece fall to her waist, but the gloves and the stockings stay on. It’s a minor victory, one that Byakuya won’t accept as a complete one but instead a stepping stone to the next stage. “Thank you,” he smiles, eyes widened like he’d just been allowed to unwrap a Christmas gift a few days early. Kyouko takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling now that her bare breasts were exposed to him, but she says nothing in response. 

Between his new erection and her wetness, she had decided that his next orgasm was going to wait until after she had obtained another. Sensitive from the throes of the last one, however, she lines herself up with his length and slides down on it, lips parting as she takes him. They had not used condoms in weeks, not after Byakuya had mentioned he wanted to feel her without protection. They were exclusive with one-another, at least to their knowledge, and were tested regularly to treat Byakuya’s growing paranoia that something was going to happen to him in some way, shape or form. She hadn’t explained why, but she had shared with Byakuya that she wasn’t able to have children, but to be on the safe side, she had gotten an implant IUD and had shown him the bill she had gotten from the hospital for its insertion. This was a growing problem, especially in Byakuya’s mind, but he refused to let himself think of a solution: he reminded himself they were  _ just lovers,  _ and that was that.

When she meets him at the base, Kyouko groans quietly, paired with Byakuya’s sharp intake of breath. Being inside her was like home, and he barely had a moment to react before she took the reins, grinding on him like he had done earlier. Panting, Byakuya’s fingers gripped at the restraints holding him onto the bed, and his eyes clenched shut with the eroticism before him, only to open to find a new, even moreso visual. Kyouko had her phone in one hand, the vibrator in another, and with a playful grin leaned over and began to mark him up. With him still inside of her, she leaned down to plant kisses along his face, his jaw, his chest, until her lips had grown smeared with the color and the young CEO was covered in a dozen or more lip prints.

“Smile for the camera, Byakuya,” she hums, winking at him and snapping a few photos of him blissed out and covered in her lipstick. “The most powerful man in the world underneath my thumb, and he’s simply fallen apart.”

“Witch,” he hisses at her, though the fondness and the pleasure is obviously not missing from his voice. Kyouko turns the phone around to make him look at himself, disheveled and blissful. 

“Who should I send these to, Byakuya?” she asks, his eyes looking at her in worry. “Maybe Makoto-kun… Fukawa-san would have a field day knowing I took you apart, no…? I’m a detective. It wouldn’t be hard to find the names and email addresses of your investors… I wonder what they would think, knowing that the man everyone else bows to bows to someone else?”

“Don’t,” he pleads, watching as she sits back on him and rides him skillfully. Her lips part into a smile, a teasing and devilish one. “Don’t, please—”

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue, “Blackmail  _ is  _ a crime, isn’t it, Byakuya? I suppose I’ll keep these to myself for now.”

The phone goes off at the same time the vibrator goes on, holding the wand to her clit as she repositions herself, straddling his waist and fucking herself on him. Hair covering her breasts as their moans fill the air, a concoction of one-sided romance and mutual eroticism, Kyouko dominates him, and Byakuya allows himself to be submissive and small just for this moment. He lets himself be used as nothing more than a multimillion dollar toy, gripping and grunting at his headboard as Kyouko’s moans and gasps meet his own in an aria of sorts. 

His stomach tightens, and he grunts quietly, looking up to her. Unable to get too many words out, he gasps, “I’m—”

“Do it,” she tells him, and Byakuya realizes that she’s probably gone through another orgasm of her own, hidden from him thanks to her riding and the vibrator. A shame that he missed it, but he is not missing the way her eyes have glazed over, physically exhausted but sexually satisfied, and he finishes inside of her, both of them gasping as he twitches in her walls. Once he’s finished, the room is eerily silent, and though he has his two orgasms that she promised him, she smiles fondly and slides off of him, laying on her side as she uncuffs him, the bondage tossed onto the floor behind her. She curls into his side, content with what they’ve done, and as he begins his perilous ascent out of subspace in their aftercare, he’s met the slick head of her vibrator on his length, an admiring noise leaving her throat.

“I can’t,” he tells her, though he doesn’t dare speak his safeword. He wants another, one brought about by her hand, but he doesn’t know if his body can give him another without a proper refractory period. Kyouko hums, seemingly ignoring him, her thighs slick with his seed.

Unexpected, she rests her head on his chest, their ankles grazing over one-another against the bedsheets, and she smiles. “One more,” she whispers, kissing his chest even though her lipstick doesn’t transfer. “One more, just for me.”

His eyes close. “Okay.”

The vibrator turns on its lowest setting, but the lowest setting is enough to make the sensitive head of Byakuya’s length twitch in response. He grunts, quietly, and Kyouko looks up at him, her lips on his neck. The vibrator is placed intentionally at the space on his dick where the shaft meets the head, and she leaves it there with the gentlest of touches. “You did so well for me today,” she praises him, and Byakuya is certain that now they’ve entered aftercare. There would be water and tea, and Kyouko would usher him into eating something. Food is on the way, he remembers, and thankfully there is no notion of subdrop on the horizon. His eyes open, meeting hers, their foreheads touching. “I’m so proud of you.”

The praise is strange to hear, as it always is now that he is completely lucid and drained of endorphins— or was it adrenaline? The heat he’s experienced periodically blooms in his gut again, spreading to his chest and heating his cold, dead heart. “Work has been hard,” she continues, and his face twitches as she moves the vibrator just a bit, turning it up a setting before replacing it. His face grows red again, desperate and longing. “It isn’t easy doing the work you do, with the past you’ve had. But you do it so well. Those who care about you look forward to your success, and you have lots of people who look up to you.”

“Yellow,” he tells her, and she nods, leaning forward to press one last kiss to his lips. It takes him by surprise, the intimacy of it all, and he smiles as he climaxes for a third time, exhausted and spent and barely producing anything more than a thought when he softens. Between his cum between her thighs and dripping down his length, both of them were overdue for a bath, and as Kyouko lets the vibrator join the pile of things they’ve collected in the floor, Byakuya wraps an arm around her, returning the favor by kissing the crown of her head. 

A long silence passes between them, interrupted by their shared breath and gentle fixing of one-another. Kyouko smudges lipstick off of the corner of his mouth while Byakuya pushes down some flyaway hair. “Don’t let me sleep through dinner,” she tells him as he moves to collect her in his arms, eyes on the luxurious bathroom connected to the master bedroom. A long soak with some epsom salts is what she normally draws for him when he struggles to get out of subspace, so he presumes that the same will be just fine for their shared bath. “Else I won’t go to bed tonight when I make it home.”

“Spend the night,” he tells her in the form of a command rather than a request. With a quiet grunt, he sets her down on the edge of the tub and hands her a towel for posterity’s sake. Byakuya wraps a towel around his waist as well, holding onto the edge of the tub as he starts the bath, shaky legs be damned. She always did a number on him, even moreso when impact play was involved. “You’re exhausted and the bed I have here will be much better for you than whatever you have at your apartment. I’ve heard its springs creak under our weight.”

She’s quiet for a while, and violet eyes watch the tub fill as Byakuya reads the back of the epsom salt jar, pouring in only an appropriate amount before dripping in some other bath necessities, each sitting in glass jars in a shelf in the bathroom. Rose petals, essential oils, bubble bath. She removes her stockings, making a disgusted face at the sensation of damp fabric against her skin, and she tosses them back into the bedroom— Kyouko isn’t an athlete, though, so they just barely make it past the bathroom door. At least she won’t have to look at them while they soak.

Kyouko watches her lover, hands on his hips and standing funny while he watches the bath fill up, and with a quiet, burning resolve, she removes her gloves and sets them on the bathroom sink.

“Okay.”


End file.
